More Than Words
by SarahCat1717
Summary: John and Sherlock are spending their first Christmas together as a couple. They don't always talk about their feelings, so a little exchange of gifts of a sort was used instead. Small one-line spoiler for a line from TEH, doesn't give away any major plot point. Fluff, so setting time period is whenever you like. Mary who? Written for tumblr winterlock gift exchange.


"Look, I find it difficult, this sort of stuff" said John.

He sat in his chair across from Sherlock, who was seated in his respective chair. Between the firelight and the twinkling of the fairy lights that were strewn over the mantle, everything took on a warm and, one might even say, a magical glow.

John twirled the small red box with a striped ribbon in his hand.

"I know we don't talk a lot about" he gestured between the two of them, "and I know we said we didn't need to do presents but it's our first Christmas since you and I have been together as we are now and I don't always say things about how I feel so I just thought..."

"Stop babbling and give me the damn box, John" said Sherlock as he stood and put out his hand. But there was no malice behind the words and there was a light in his eyes when he took the box from John.

"And don't deduce it either, just open it." said John, taking up the glass of scotch (very good scotch, a holiday gift from Mycroft).

Sherlock sniffed in derision at the instruction, which was of course immediately undercut by the fact that he spun on his heels and flounced down onto the floor with his back to John but firmly wedged between the doctor's knees. John smiled at the familiar action which was, at it's root, not a request but rather a command for John to run his fingers into Sherlock's hair. Which he did, of course he did.

For as hard as words were John and Sherlock at times, the actions were easy. It was the actions that set their orbit around one another closer and closer. Sherlock got John to chase over rooftops with him without a cane. John shot a man dead to save Sherlock within the first 48 hours of knowing him.

Those were big, dramatic actions. But it was the much smaller ones that brought them closer yet. They learned the language of one another easily and naturally, like moving into a culture to learn the native tongue, but this was a language spoken by only a population of two.

A look and a nod silently indicated agreement that yes, of course John would be right behind as they ran headlong into danger. A barely audible hum and a change in posture was enough to signal Sherlock to reign in a scathing deduction that was, to say the very least, a bit not good. Halfway through eating containers of take-away late in the night, one would give a sidelong glance at the food in front of his flatmate, and the containers were traded without a word.

It was all fine, even when it changed.

It was fine to slump against the other in a cab. It was fine when a quick kiss was dropped over the fresh white bandage that had just been expertly taped over split knuckles. It was fine when a lanky detective dropped his head into his friend's lap while in a strop of boredom. It was fine when he found that boredom eased by the feel of fingers running through his curls.

It was fine when they woke up wrapped around one another on the sofa when neither had the energy to make to their respective beds the night before. When each awoke but didn't move, it should have felt awkward. The silence maybe shouldn't have been so comfortable. But it was. Neither remembered who first turned their head for their lips to meet. Later on, neither could pinpoint the exact day when they no longer needed two bedrooms.

But along the way, some actions were noticed. Like when John turned down an offer from an attractive new lieutenant at the Yard to "catch dinner together sometime." Like when Sherlock referred to he and John as "partners" while making introductions and neither did anything to correct the barrister when she indicated that she assumed it was not in the professional sense of the word. Like when Sherlock clenched John's hand in the back of an ambulance when a miscalculation led to John getting hit with a pipe and spending three long nights in hospital.

And it wasn't as if they never spoke about how they felt about one another. It just didn't often happen in the sitting room over drinks. There were utterances in the dark, tokens of love and passion dropped with hot breath from the mouth of one into the mouth of the other. There were sweet sentiments pressed between kisses into the other's skin. John sometimes, but sparingly enough to keep it effective, beseeched "for me, love" when such measures were called for. And Sherlock sometimes couldn't help but subtly growl "My soldier. My doctor. My John" when John was just a bit too brilliant for any other words to do.

So when John went looking for a way to say what he wanted to say on the event of their first Christmas _together_ together, he decided to go the route of an action speaking louder than words.

"Mrs. Hudson wrapped this for you. You have the hands of a surgeon yet you can't tie this neat of a bow to save your life, John. Ow!"

John lightly cuffed Sherlock on the back of the head.

"I said no deducing!" John chided. Although he knew it didn't actually hurt and he heard and felt Sherlock's deep chuckle, John rubbed his fingertips over the spot on Sherlock's head anyway.

Sherlock opened the small box, swished aside the tissue paper and removed the small glass bottle. He held it up to the firelight and gave it a little shake, the bits of dark metal separating from one another along the edge. Sherlock gasped and held the jar tighter, then brought it close to his eyes in the dim lighting to examine his gift closer.

"So you know what that is then I take it?" John asked.

"These are the bullet fragments that they removed from the shoulder wound that resulted in you being invalided home"

"Yep. The bigger pieces were removed at the field hospital. Some of the smaller ones were removed after I was flown out, when infection had started to set in. Third surgery, the most delicate, got the tiniest bits that were in a tricky spot by a nerve bundle."

Sherlock was unusually quiet for some time, turning the little bottle over and over in his hands.

"I know it's an odd gift. When I first came home to London I looked at that gnarled bullet a lot. Somedays I cursed it. Somedays I had to remind myself that it did not indeed kill me and I needed to keep moving."

John took a drink from his tumbler.

"And then I met you" he set his drink down and worked both hands up into Sherlock's hair, starting at the base of his neck and running up to his crown and temples.

"And I didn't need to look at them to remind myself that I was alive anymore"

Sherlock was still silent but had let his head lull back against John's thigh. He still held the vial in front of his eyes and turned it slowly, the pieces slipping over one another like the flecks of color in the end of a kaleidoscope.

The silence started to make John a bit self-conscious about his choice of present.

"If you think it's silly and too sentimental I can just tuck them back in my trunk…" said John as he extended on hand towards the little jar.

Sherlock snatched it out of his reach and quickly sat up onto his knees and turned to John.

"Don't you dare, it's mine now. Now take off your shirts"

"What?" asked John.

"Your scar, John. I want to examine the fragments compared to your scar."

John smiled fondly and complied with the request. He removed his layers as Sherlock scurried impatiently to the side of the chair.

"Haven't you memorized what that thing looks like by now?" asked John.

When they had first crossed over into physical intimacy, and many times since then, cataloguing the details of John's scar was established as s favorite pastime of Sherlock's. It was as they fell asleep together just a few weeks ago, Sherlock contemplatively skimming his lips over the ragged edges of the exit wound, that led to John having the idea of the gift.

"The largest fragment almost made it out but was snagged on the tissue just here" said Sherlock as he traced one harsh ridge with his pinky finger.

"You like it then?" asked John, peering over his shoulder.

"Of course I do. I don't like what it did to you but it also brought you home to London and brought you to me. Tomorrow I'm putting them each under the microscope and I may try to get a hold of the x-rays from your military health records, ideally one from prior to each of the three procedures. But for now, bed John."

Sherlock stood and headed through the kitchen where he took one last look at his gift before leaving it by the microscope for tomorrow's inspection. John was a few steps behind, sorting out his discarded shirts as he walked.

Sherlock turned to face John.

"I'm afraid I didn't get you anything."

"It's fine, we said we weren't going to. It's been a nice quiet Christmas at home and you liked your gift and now I get to take you to bed" John rested one hand on Sherlock's hip as he looked up at him. It wasn't just the good scotch that resulted in the flush in John's face.

"Merry Christmas, Sherlock"

"Merry Christmas, John"

John started to edge up onto his tiptoes for a kiss when Sherlock turned and headed to their bedroom. He called over his shoulder "Oh I meant to tell you, I ordered business cards like you have been nagging me to. Before you come in, would you check them over for mistakes? There's a few samples for me to proof in the envelope on the desk. I put both our web addresses on the back as you suggested."

John rocked back on his heels and pulled a face at being left hanging and at the strange request from Sherlock John-don't-be-silly-I-don't-make-mistakes Holmes. But he did as was requested of him.

He dug the small stack of cards from the envelope from the printer. There on the back was, indeed, both of their website addresses. John was already grinning when he turned over the cards to see the front.

Sherlock Holmes

Dr. John H. Watson

Consulting Detectives

John didn't even bother to read down as far to check if the contact information was all in order. He ran his thumb over the raised print of his and Sherlock's names. John didn't hear Sherlock approach him in the dark, but he felt the warmth of his presence along his bare back a moment before Sherlock spoke.

"Do they look alright?" he asked. No one but John would have detected the hint of insecurity in the question.

"Not the only one in the world anymore, huh?" John asked.

"Not alone in the world anymore" replied Sherlock. He splayed on hand on the top of John's spine, long fingers reaching just into his hairline as his thumb found the edge of his scar again.

"Married to your work?" John teased.

"Hopelessly devoted to it"


End file.
